When I order a cup of tea in Costa, the barista says: ‘Perfect!’ I ask for tap water in a restaurant: ‘Perfect!’ I buy a card in Paperchase and at the till it’s: ‘Perfect!’ And: ‘Perfect!’ again as I put in my PIN. ‘Perfect!’ when I say I don’t need a bag. It used to be ‘Great!’ and even that was too ecstatic a response to a side-order of creamed spinach. Now, there’s been a service industry upgrade. No longer is the customer always right; they are perfect. A little thing, yes, but a symptom of a wider mania for perfection. Everything from breakfast muesli to career, home and family must be perfect. Perfect interiors. The perfect diet. A perfect body. Pretty, perky, perfect children in pressed pinafores and collared shirts.
It is driven in part by magazines — ‘Perfect profiteroles!’ ‘Perfect bikinis for every figure!’ — in part by social media. Not-quite-perfect photos are filtered and fiddled with until they are perfect enough for posting on Instagram as proof of an ideal life.
It can be pernicious. Friends are made miserable in the run-up to their weddings by bridal-shop shysters selling the myth of Your Perfect Day. Without these sugared almonds (£100), those white hydrangeas in cut crystal vases (£1,000), and that society photographer (price on application), the Happiest Day of Your Life will fall short of the perfect mark. And that, naturally, scuppers any hope of a Perfect Marriage. The bride is a gibbering wreck because she didn’t, in the end, buy a blue satin garter ribbon, and has therefore failed as the dream dress-up bride. The groom makes a toast to ‘my perfect, beautiful wife’, though all the guests know they’ve fought tooth and claw over the table plan since the engagement.
It doesn’t end there.
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